Scars
by StarfireRocks
Summary: Hermione takes her small daughter on a trip in search of a birthday present, but ends up explaining the scars on her arm and bringing up bitter memories.


**I am not a Ron/Hermione shipper, nor do I enjoy Next Generation stories, yet that's what this story consists of. Odd, and random, but oh well.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable.**

**Enjoy!**

On a warm summer day, in the midst of July, Hermione Weasley and her small daughter were travelling down Diagon Alley, browsing the various shops in search of a suitable gift for Harry Potter, whose birthday was in a matter of weeks.

"I blame your father," Hermione sighed, looking somewhat hassled as they left the seventh shop of the day. "I don't usually wait so long to buy a present for Harry – there's nothing in the stores good enough to buy for him!"

Rose, only four, swung her hand in her mother's, trailing her eyes over the windows to aid the search. "What's Daddy getting Uncle Harry?" she asked, eyeing the Leaky Cauldron longingly – it was dinner time, and she was quite hungry (unfortunately, she took after her father in way of appetite.)

Noticing her daughter's line of sight, Hermione gave a gentle smile and started to lead the way to the old favourite pub of the entire family. "Your father's decided to give your Uncle Harry a scrapbook, full of pictures of our years at Hogwarts – I had the very same idea last year, but then I found out about that new Quidditch magazine, and gave him that subscription instead."

"So Daddy _stole _your idea?" Rose said, sounding indignant on her mother's behalf.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed, pushing open the door and allowing her daughter to lead the way inside, "but don't worry; I'm rather used to it, I'm afraid. Your father's been this way since school."

"Oh," her daughter said, wrinkling her nose in disapproval. "Then we have to make our present the bestest ever!"

Hermione frowned fleetingly at the use of the non-Dictionary-approved word, but let it pass since her daughter was only young, and was otherwise very aware of such matters. "We will," she promised. "But first we should have some dinner, don't you think?"

Rose nodded eagerly. "Can we visit Uncle George after?" she asked hopefully. "Or Grandma Molly? She always has yummy food."

"We're just going to eat!" Hermione said in exasperation.

Her daughter shrugged and plopped into a seat at one of the tables. Hermione went to get their food, and came back with a full plate for each of them, rolling her sleeves up in the process (in really was quite warm inside; uncomfortably so.)

Rose slowed her eating in surprise, squinting at her mother's arm with scrutiny.

"Mummy," she said slowly, putting down her fork and gaining her mother's attention, "what's that on your arm?"

Hermione glanced down in surprise, belatedly releasing what her daughter was getting at. On her left arm, in big, crude writing, numerous and deep scars spelt out that foul word: _Mudblood._

She pulled down her sleeve and leant back in her chair, wondering how on earth she was supposed to explain this to her little girl. She couldn't come clean, not about all of it – not only was she too young, but Hermione knew Harry didn't want the children (any of them) to grow up knowing about his fame; for their best interest, as well as his peace of mind (he had spent too much of his childhood dealing with the pressure of his fame; he didn't want to have to grow through it again with his own children and friends' children).

So what was she to say?

"Well," she began carefully, "several years ago, before you were born, there was a fair bit of trouble in the Wizarding World. Your father, your Uncle Harry, and I were a part of a group trying to sort things out again. While we were doing so, we ran into some difficulties and got separated. The people that had us wanted . . . some answers to their questions, and in order to get them, they did this." Hermione fingered her scars, fleetingly remembering Bellatrix Lestrange leaning over her, digging her dagger into her arm while she screamed and cried, faintly hearing Ron's shouting below . . .

"What does it mean?"

Hermione pursed her lips, wincing inwardly. "It's a terrible word, one that I don't want to _ever _hear from you. It's an awful name for witches or wizards born of Muggle families, like me. It's such a terrible thing to say, and the people that caught us were the type of wizards who discriminated against witches and wizards in the same position as me."

Again, Hermione was lost in her memories, this time slightly more tame, of Draco Malfoy and those loathsome times at school when he taunted her (mostly Harry, but occasionally her and her heritage) and called her those names . . . and, of course, how Bellatrix took things to a new level and permanently labelled her with the scars . . .

"Did it hurt?"

Hermione jumped and glanced down at her daughter, who had an utmost look of seriousness on her face as she studied her mother with an intense gaze. She smiled gently and stroked Rose's curls, which were a mix of brown and red (her hair probably wouldn't stay a definite colour until she was older) and picked her fork back up.

"It did," she said honestly, "but it was worth it. Now, come on, eat up. I'm thinking we should try Muggle London – your Uncle Harry was raised in the Muggle world, like me, so he might appreciate a non-magical gift. If I had started earlier, I might have been able to knit him a wool hat – he seemed to like the ones I made back in school . . ."

**And there we go; a very short oneshot. Like I said, this isn't my type of story - honestly? I prefer Harry/Hermione and dislike the Next Generation all together - but this idea wouldn't leave me alone, so I had to write it.**

**Reviews are welcome with open arms!**


End file.
